


The Problem At Thor Bridge (1899)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [179]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cuddling & Snuggling, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Guns, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Theft, Traumatized John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 06:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11617554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A chance encounter with some acquaintances from a past case leads first to a furniture shop in Berkshire, and then to blood being spilt on a Kentish railway station – and to angry words between the dynamic duo.





	The Problem At Thor Bridge (1899)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randomskittles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomskittles/gifts).



Foreword: The two railway companies serving Kent, the South Eastern and the London, Chatham & Dover, had as I have mentioned before both been long renowned for their dreadfully poor service. At the start of the year in which this story is set (1899), they had been placed under a joint management committee, and were often but incorrectly called 'the South Eastern & Chatham Railway'. They remained independent (if much better run) entities until the 1923 Grouping, when they became part of the Southern Railway.

+~+~+

One of the more astute letters that I received from my readers after this story was originally published questioned as to why this was the only one which was a 'Problem' rather than an 'Adventure'. I could not of course say so directly at the time – my original readership was largely Victorian, after all – but the 'Problem' in this case led to a blazing row between me and the man that I love. Because one of the blue-eyed genius' few failings was an often-times blatant disregard for his own safety, which in this case nearly killed him. Again. And the prospect of losing him, after all we had been through together, broke something in me.

After helping out poor Wilson, the district messenger, I had looked forward to a period of quiet. Sherlock had a few minor cases over the ensuing months, but nothing of import, and I began to hope that there would be no more dangerous cases that threatened to prise us apart. We were both getting on, and we deserved some peace and quiet.

It was a nice thought. 

It was a cold September day and, unusually (and irritatingly) I had woken alone. There was an apologetic note from my friend, saying that he had had to rush to the family home as his father had had a bad fall. I winced in sympathy at Sherlock having to put up with all of his relatives (one of my secret fears was that he would one day end up investigating the murder of one or more of them, and it might well be he who had been responsible), but had little time to dwell on such matters as, in the middle of breakfast, I received an urgent summons telling me that one of my few regular patients, Mrs. Brooks, had most inopportunely decided to go into labour a full month ahead of her delivery date. I had to gulp down my last piece of bacon – I had noted that Mrs. Singer had adroitly kept back half of my normal allocation, and would doubtless be serving it to the scruffian later - before racing off to Northumberland Street, where I was mercifully in time to deliver a small but healthy baby boy.

As so often in these cases, the delivery was one thing whilst all the complications arising from it were quite another. I had to be very firm with my patient, telling her that she had lost a lot of blood and most assuredly needed to accompany her baby to hospital. She seemed to be of the opinion that her husband would think her to be wasting time and money, but I insisted. I was also more than a little annoyed that no-one amongst the servants had thought to go to fetch him, especially as I knew that he worked in a bank in Duncannon Street, which was within easy walking distance, so I promised her that once she was safely dispatched, I would go and take the news to him myself and assure him that all was well. Which was why, rather than turning left and heading towards my favourite restaurant in Trafalgar Square for lunch, I turned right and headed towards the bank. It was to prove a fateful diversion.

I had not gone far when I came upon a small jeweller's shop. Two men were standing outside, dressed rather warmly for a summer's day, I thought. Then one of them chanced to turn slightly, and I recognized him.

“Mr. Benezet?” I asked.

It was indeed the self-same gentleman whom I had met five years ago in the case of the Smith-Mortimer succession, which had started on the Yorkshire-Lancashire border and ended in London. And the other gentleman I now recognized as his friend from that time, Mr. Wallace. They had been instrumental in frustrating the dastardly plans of that ne'er-do-well, Colonel Horatio Carruthers.

“You are down from the North for the day?” I asked after greetings were exchanged. 

They looked at each other nervously, before I noticed Mr. Benezet give his friend a slight nod.

“Actually”, Mr. Wallace said, “we have moved to Windsor, in Berkshire. Ben has a post at the station, and I work at a bank in the town.”

“Why did you come south?” I asked curiously. Again, a look. 

“After you left”, Mr. Benezet said, “Colonel Carruthers spread certain stories around as to our, ahem, relationship. It made staying in the area.... difficult. We left some four years ago.”

I made a mental note to engage my brain in future before opening my mouth. Of course I had suspected that the two men were what Sherlock and I were to each other, but this was Victorian England. One did not ask.

“You should have contacted us”, I said. “We would have been delighted to help you, especially after you helped us.”

“How is Mr. Holmes?” Mr. Wallace asked politely. “We read all his cases of course, but naturally we understand that there are some things that you cannot publish.”

I blushed.

“His hair is as bad as ever”, I said. “And he is still impossible until after his first few coffees of the morning!”

“I know the feeling!” Mr. Benezet said fervently, eliciting an annoyed yelp and a half-hearted swat from his friend. “It is strange that we should meet you like this, for we were only saying this morning that the happenings around our new home might be of interest to the pair of you.”

“Then either you must visit us, or we can come to Windsor”, I said. “Unfortunately Sherlock is attending to a family matter just now, and I have an errand from my last patient, but we should definitely meet up.”

“Perhaps Saturday?” Mr. Wallace ventured. “If you are both free?”

I promised to telegraph them once I could confirm matters with Sherlock, and having exchanged addresses we parted, they into the jeweller's shop, and I onto the Capital & Eastern Bank.

+~+~+

It said something for how well Mrs. Singer knew her most illustrious tenant that the tray containing a steaming coffee-pot and his bacon came into our rooms less than two minutes after Sherlock's return from his family, tired and footsore. His father was well enough, but judging from his expression, his brothers had been even more difficult than usual. The way his face lit up when he saw half a pig on his plate was a joy to behold. Fortunately he was free on Saturday, so I sent a boy with a telegram to our friends to alert them that we would indeed be coming. By the time I had seen him off, the bacon was all gone!

+~+~+

Mr. Benezet and Mr. Wallace lived in a pleasant little village called Clewer, a place only a short distance from the Great Western Railway's Windsor Central Station which we reached after changing at Slough Junction. Saxon Terrace was not at first obvious, being a set of four houses built opposite a row of shops in the village's quiet high street. It turned out that the houses, which all backed onto the River Thames, were named after the Old English gods who gave their names to four of our weekdays. Our friends lived in Woden Bridge.

“I have some news for you both”, Sherlock said as Mr. Wallace poured coffee for us all. “About a certain military 'acquaintance' of ours.”

“Colonel Carruthers?” Mr. Benezet asked warily. Sherlock nodded.

“The colonel eventually managed to obtain a commission with the Army in India, I think through a distant relation”, Sherlock said. “It did not go well. His behaviour nearly incited a revolt, and he was cashiered when he was caught embezzling army funds. He travelled back across Asia and made it to Africa where he joined the fight against the Mahdi, under a false identity. He was killed at Omdurman, last year.”

“Good riddance”, Mr. Benezet said gently. “I am at least glad that he died doing something honourable.”

“Not that honourable”, Sherlock said grimly. “He was killed when he tried to move his men out of position, rather than follow an order to advance. One of his own men shot him in disgust.”

“Typical!” I grunted. I noted that both men were wearing rings which I was sure had not been there when I had met them in London. Of course, they had been outside a jeweller's shop. I silently fingered the two on my own finger.

“So”, Sherlock said. “What made you 'ring' for our services?”

The bastard! I glared at him, and our hosts both chuckled.

“It is our neighbours, at Thor Bridge”, Mr. Benezet said. “And you are almost certainly going to think it silly.”

“Tell them, Ben”, his friend urged.

“They are called the Sigurdsons, though they are as English as anyone else round here”, Mr. Benezet said. “Mr. and Mrs, no children; they moved in three months ago. Two huge carts came down the road, laden with furniture.”

He stopped. Sherlock and I both stared at him.

“And?” Sherlock prompted.

“Ever since they moved in, the furniture shop opposite seems suddenly very busy”, Mr. Benezet said. “Every few days, a new piece of furniture arrives, or one departs. All high-quality, as well; my late father was a cabinet-maker, and some of the things I have seen going in and out look _very_ expensive. Yet the items on sale in the shop are ordinary by comparison.”

“You think that they are dealing in too much expensive furniture?” I asked dubiously. Sherlock and I had started cases on many strange precepts before, but this was in a class of its own.

“I told you that it was silly”, Mr. Benezet said quietly, looking embarrassed.

“That is not all”, Mr. Wallace said. “Last week, I was visiting Mrs. Kilbourn at Tiw Bridge, the house on our other side, when a telegram arrived. She went and opened it before realizing that it should have gone to Thor Bridge instead. She is painfully shy, so I said that I would take it round for her. A maid opened the door, and I explained matters to her, so she went to get the butler. Whilst I was there, I could see through to a room at the back – and a fellow was _dismantling_ a piece of furniture for some reason! The butler was obviously annoyed at my coming, and did not even bother to thank me. He just snatched the telegram off me and slammed the door in my face!”

Sherlock smiled.

“Of course, you read the telegram”, he said.

“Yes”, Mr. Wallace said. “I wrote it down. I thought that it might be important.”

He retrieved a notebook from the writing-desk, and opened it.

“It is a list of five addresses in France, each with a name attached”, he said, showing it to Sherlock. “I may have some of the spellings wrong, I am afraid. None of them mean anything to me.”

“They are quite probably all either furniture makers or vendors”, Sherlock said. “I know one of them; Marchand's; it is one of the most exclusive places in Paris, and that the French police are more than a little interested in its dealings. It would seem that they are selling items from the shop here, presumably at a considerable mark-up. Quality English furniture is always in demand; if it has provenance, of course. I will need to investigate further into this matter, but I have one or two ideas which I shall pursue through my London contacts. In the meantime.... congratulations.”

Both men smiled.

+~+~+

We returned to London that evening, and the following day Sherlock went to find Sergeant Baldur to ask him some questions. I stayed in Baker Street to treat Mr. Lindberg's leg, which he had broken whilst falling out of bed. I also learnt the hard way not to ask his wife as to just how it had happened. What they say about ignorance being bliss is all too true!

Sherlock returned just before lunch with the sergeant, who I immediately thought looked truly terrible. After joining us for lunch – I noticed how much he ate; the man was clearly ravenous – he turned to my friend.

“Thank you for getting me out of there, sir”, he yawned. “It has been awful these past few weeks, and few of us have gotten any sleep.”

“I can see that”, Sherlock said. “I have arranged with Inspector Henriksen to 'borrow' you for the whole day, so you do not need to worry about getting back.”

The sergeant yawned again, and looked at him gratefully.

“What do you need, sir?” he asked.

“Right now, I need you to get some sleep”, Sherlock said firmly. “You are no good to anyone without some rest.”

“But sir....”

“There is a hot water-bottle in the bed, and you, sergeant, are going to sleep”, Sherlock said firmly.

He propelled the yawning policeman into his room, and returned a few moments later looking satisfied with himself.

“All well and good”, I said pointedly, “but what are going to do if he is still snoring away when you turn in tonight?”

“I suppose I shall have to sleep with you”, he said blithely. 

The look he gave me that accompanied that statement made it quite clear that sleep was unlikely. I gulped, and prayed that the sergeant would wake up. Then again.....

+~+~+

Fortunately – or possibly not – Sergeant Baldur woke at just before nine o'clock, just as I was beginning to consider my options for the night ahead. He emerged from Sherlock's room looking as rumpled as my friend did of a morning, but clearly much more awake.

“Thank you for that, sir”, he said, slumping into the fireside chair. “I so needed a rest. Will probably need another eight hours soon, though.”

“Good”, Sherlock said. “Tell me; how did you come to end up in such a state?”

The sergeant groaned. 

“Winter, over in Paddington”, he said. “There's been a spate of portrait thefts recently from some of the big houses in Middlesex, and his station and ours were appointed to work out how they were smuggling them out of the country. But he keeps claiming that half his staff are off sick or something, so most of the work has fallen on us. Lazy bastard!”

Sherlock smiled.

“Still, you may also get the credit if you solve it”, he said. “When did this spate of robberies begin, pray?”

“About three months ago”, the sergeant said. I started slightly, but fortunately I was not in his line of sight, so he did not notice. “And last week they struck at Lord Charlemont's place, Highmere. He is a personal friend of Colonel Bradford, so the heat is on to solve this.”

“In that case, I may be able to offer some assistance”, Sherlock said. “Though I would need you to have yourself and several of your men at my disposal, and at short notice.”

“The lads at the station know you have always come through for them, more than once before”, the sergeant said loyally. “Just send us a message, and we will be ready and raring to go.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock beamed.

+~+~+

Nothing happened for the next few days, except that Sherlock exchanged messages with our Windsor friends, and seemed content to await developments. These came with a rush when he received a telegram one morning at breakfast. Quaffing down his coffee, he rose from the table.

“Damnation!” he swore. “I had expected our friends to come to us, through London. But they have gone the other way.”

“What friends?” I asked, confused. “Where?”

“We need to get to Victoria Station”, he said, frantically writing a note on a scrap of paper. “There is a timetable on the shelf over there, John. I need the times of trains to Tonbridge, otherwise we will have to telegraph ahead. And I want Sergeant Baldur to get the credit for his hard work.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but quickly checked for South Eastern trains to the Kentish town. Sherlock went to the window and called for a boy, telling him to take the telegram to the nearby office and return in under ten minutes for half a crown (he was always too generous to the local urchins). 

“There is one in ten minutes, and the one after goes in just over an hour's time”, I told him. He relaxed at the news.

“Good”, he said. “Obviously we cannot make the first train, but the second one should just about suffice, if the South Eastern Railway performs adequately. Meanwhile we may do justice to the bounteous feast that is Mrs. Lindberg's English breakfast, and still make Charing Cross with time to spare. We may even be lucky enough to receive a further message.”

No more messages materialized as we finished our meal, although when I took out my gun and looked pointedly at Sherlock, he slowly nodded. We left Baker Street, and a cab took us across a surprisingly traffic-free London, arriving at Charing with twenty minutes in hand. My friend went to the telegraph office, and when he came out again, he was smiling.

“All is well”, he said. “Sandhurst, as I suspected.”

“The Royal Military College?” I asked, confused.

“No, the Berkshire town”, he said, explaining precisely nothing. “Ah, I see the cavalry are here.”

We had walked down to the ticket-gate to Platform Four, and Sergeant Baldur and three constables were waiting for us.

“I hope you are right on this”, the sergeant said, looking decidedly nervous. “We received a message from Paddington just before we left. Winter has gone off on a hot tip that he thinks will lead him straight to the thieves.”

“Well, he cannot get up to much mischief in the wilds of north Hertfordshire”, Sherlock said mildly. “And Buntingford is renowned for its taverns.”

The sergeant looked at him, shocked.

“Oh please tell me you did not?” he asked. One of his colleagues failed to stifle a snort of laughter.

“What?” Sherlock asked, far too innocently. “That is the risk one runs with anonymous tip-offs. Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you get to search the house of a man who keeps a large number of pet snakes and lizards.”

The man was a bastard, I decided, as two of the other constables snorted their laughter. But he was my bastard!

+~+~+

The four policemen were slightly shocked when Sherlock purchased six first-class return tickets for us all, and judging by the way the younger constables spent the first part of the journey examining every aspect of the compartment, it was evidently not something that they had ever experienced before. We arrived at the Kentish town precisely on time (mercifully the reformed railway company was already showing signs of improvement from its previous dire performance), and Sherlock warned us as we got off the train that we would be called into action very soon.

“In addition to its services in the area of England from which it takes its name”, he said, “the South Eastern Railway Company had a lone branch-line that extends all the way to the Berkshire town of Reading. Now, the men whom we may or may not meet today are based in Windsor, and I must admit that I fully expected them to undertake the journey they are currently on via London. Unfortunately they chose instead to go to Reading and then take the South Eastern's line across country; slower, but necessitating only one change before Dover and, of course, avoiding having to cross London. The Downs line is notorious not just for poor service but the occasional crash, but it seems that they have been prepared to take the risk. The good news is that I was alerted to their change of plans, which is why we are here today.”

“I owe my interest on this case to two gentlemen friends we met on a case some years back, who became curious as to why a furniture shop opposite them had suddenly acquired a vast amount of extra business just as our friends' new neighbours had moved in. Now, coincidences do happen, but I did not believe that this was a coincidence. That shop was being used for something - but what?”

He was interrupted by the whistle of a distant train approaching down the line from the west. He moved us around behind the waiting-room. 

“It is highly likely that the item of furniture that they are sending is on that train”, he said. “I will speak to the guard, and then call you all over if needed. If the person travelling with it sees a number of policemen on the platform, there is no knowing how they may react.”

Fortunately the train pulled to a halt by the water-tower, and the fireman leapt out and began the process of refilling the locomotive's water tank. Sherlock walked over to the guard and chatted briefly to him. At the same time, I noticed a sharply-dressed young man leave his first-class carriage and amble along the platform to the luggage-van and my friend. He looked across at me and nodded, and I whispered to the sergeant and his men to follow me. I placed my hand on my gun inside my jacket pocket.

What happened next took only a few seconds, but they seemed to last forever. The sharply-dressed man caught sight of myself and the advancing policemen, and clearly realized that the game was up. He pulled a pistol from beneath his jacket and aimed, not at the policemen but at Sherlock, who was only a few yards in front of him. He could not miss.

But he would never get the chance to pull the trigger. There was one door on the coach between him and Sherlock, and as he wielded his weapon, that door suddenly flew open, catching him fully in the face. He reeled back in shock, and I took the chance to remove his stain from the human race with all the bullets that I had in my gun.

He was dead. And Tonbridge railway station echoed to the sound of women screaming, babies crying and the gentle susurration of the railway locomotive steaming placidly into the clear blue sky, whilst a man's lifeblood seeped all over Platform Two.

+~+~+

After the shooting there was of course the formality of statements, although the fact that the man drawing his weapon first had been witnessed by four officers of the law sped things along somewhat. Sherlock explained matters to a surprisingly unperturbed stationmaster (one would have thought his station saw slaughter on a daily basis!), and a large crate was removed from the luggage-van and deposited on the platform. Eventually the train was allowed to go on its way, and Sherlock sat down beside me on the bench. I was still shaking.

“Thank you”, he whispered softly. “For saving me. Again.”

“You idiot!” I hissed, fighting back what felt suspiciously like tears. “What am I going to do if you end up killing yourself just because you don't take enough care? Damn it, Sherlock, you know that I cannot go on without you!”

“We will talk back home”, he said quietly, as the sergeant approached. “Ah, you have the equipment I asked for. Good. You may find it in your interests to open that crate, sergeant.”

Sergeant Baldur nodded, still eyeing me somewhat warily, and he and his men set to work to open the end of the huge crate, which was taller than I was. The sides were eventually folded down on their hinges to reveal a large dark wooden bookcase with cupboards. It was singularly unimpressive, I thought.

“Not a Chippendale, but not far behind”, Sherlock said. “Worth several hundred pounds on its own. However, that is not what we came here for.”

He scrambled up onto the top of the ghastly thing that had nearly cost him his life, and fiddled with something until he was able to remove the ornate wooden top. Then he reached down – and when he brought his hand up, there was a small, foot-square portrait in it.

“A concealed space” he grinned. “Even without measuring, I could see that the thing did not match up. I can see at least one large painting in there as well, sergeant. If you get two of your men up here when I come down, they can probably extract them all.”

The horrible bookcase contained two large paintings and four small ones. I glared at them all as they lay in the waiting-room, creating an impromptu art gallery.

“Sergeant, I suggest that you telegraph the National Gallery, who doubtless have expertise as how to correctly transport these rare pieces”, Sherlock said. “Then send one of your officers back to your station with your report, and the rest of you should stay here to guard this little haul. You might also want to telegraph your colleagues over in France, and tell them to call in at the destination on the docket here, so they can close down that end of the operation.”

“I will, sir”, the sergeant beamed. “And thank you, sir – for everything!”

“We were glad to help”, Sherlock smiled. Then he caught the look on my face, and his smile faded.

+~+~+

Our journey back to Baker Street was difficult, to say the least. I was still furious with Sherlock for risking himself for some ratty furniture and a few old paintings, and he clearly (if belatedly) felt that anger. I sat with my arms folded in the cab all the way from Charing Cross to Baker Street, seething quietly, and once we were inside I stormed upstairs, ignoring the worried looks of Mr. and Mrs Lindberg as I charged past them. I was tempted to go to my bedroom and try to pretend that it had all never happened – denial had always worked for me in the past, damnation! - but when I heard Sherlock come through the door behind me and call my name, something inside me snapped.

“How could you?” I yelled, not caring who heard me. “Twice in my life I've lost you now, and just as I thought I had you back for good, you go and do something dumb like that!”

“John....”

“No, Sherlock!” I ground out. “Ye Gods, why do you have to do this? Risk your life for people, just to put away some human detritus? Why can't you be like Ben and Bill, living quietly somewhere away from it all.”

“What would you have me do?” Sherlock said quietly. “God gave me these gifts, John, to serve my fellow humans. You know that what we do can be dangerous.”

He sounded hurt, but I was too angry to care. 

“Of course I bloody do!” I ground out, silently wondering why the dust in the room was making my eyes water. “In two years I'll be fifty, Sherlock. Five-zero years old! I've known you most of my life, and I cannot.... I cannot....”

He came and sat down down next to me, and began to slowly remove my clothes. I bit back a comment that sex was not the answer, and he smiled uncertainly at me.

“My meeting with the family the other day did not go well”, he said, slipping off my shirt and running his hands over my chest. I sighed, leaning into his touch despite my anger.

“Some people will never be happy”, I muttered, taking in his scent like it was my life-blood. I was still shaking, albeit a little less than before.

“He told us all that he has rewritten his will.”

I tensed and pulled back, staring at him in alarm. He continued to caress me until I relaxed again.

“And?” I prompted.

“He has added a clause, stating that should any brother try in any way to disinherit one of his siblings, then he loses his own part of the estate”, he said. “Mycroft in particular will know what that means. He will not dare try moving against us and risk losing everything.”

“Your father has always been good about us”, I said, as Sherlock eased my now naked form onto the bed and eased in opposite me. 

“I love you, John”, he said simply. “Society may not recognize that yet, but one day it will. And in the meantime, I promise that I will take more care of myself. I love you too much to do otherwise. I am sorry for today.”

I sniffed and pulled him closer. This was wonderful; two middle-aged men just holding each other, content in each other's arms.

“I love you, you idiot!” I said with a smile. “I always will. Don't you dare ever leave me, Sherlock.”

For some reason my mind chose that moment to remind me of Mrs. Moseley's last words to me in London, that Sherlock would indeed never leave me. For the first time, I dared to hope that that prophecy might, just might be true.

+~+~+

Postscripta: A raid by Sergeant Baldur's men on the Clewer furniture shop yielded almost all the lost paintings, including those of Colonel Bradford's friend. The Sigurdsons were found to be the actual operators of the business, presumably thinking that their criminal activities would go unnoticed in such a quiet spot. The sergeant received a commendation for his good work, and he made sure that his colleagues all received due recognition as well. And there was the added bonus that a certain other north London sergeant was out of commission for a time afterwards, having been bitten by a snake during a raid that turned out to be totally fruitless. Except, possibly, for the snake.

The reptilian one.

Two strange things about this case emerged only some time after the dramatic events herein described. The first was that Sherlock's life had been saved by someone emerging from that intervening compartment – yet wen I wrote the case up, I realized that despite my distraction, I was sure that no-one had been behind that door. And besides, the train had been standing there for some time, so why had whoever it was not emerged earlier?

The second odd thing concerned the shooter (Mr. Niles Sigurdson, son of one of the businessmen) who confessed to trying to kill Sherlock – with four policemen as witnesses, he presumably felt that he had little choice. He was tried, convicted and rightly hung. Yet when his gun was passed onto his brother, the latter asked the police why they had filled it with blanks. They had not....

+~+~+

Next time, Sherlock and I have to leave our home in Baker Street!


End file.
